No Sensations
by katthegreat11
Summary: AU. Bella is not able to feel pain due to a genetic disease, yet she causes Edward to feel the greatest pain he has ever known. Twilight time period, similar story line, but with much more skepticism and character depth.
1. No Home

Chapter 1: No Home

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer._

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"Bella, you're crying, baby," Renee said as she stifled back her own tears.

"Oh. Am I?"

"Bella… Bella, honey…" My mother rubbed the running mascara into her cheek and started again, "Bella, I'm so sorry. You know I love you, honey. I just… I just can't take care of you anymore. I… I wish I could, but… but… but I just can't." She wiped her tan wrist across her nose in effort to wipe away her tears.

"Mom, it's alright. Forks will be better for me," I said with sadness, but no pain, "and I know that I need to live with Dad. I love you, but this is something you and I know that I have to do. For me. And for you."

"Oh, baby girl, I am going to miss you so much. Say hello to your father for me," she added that last sentence on as an awkward obligation. "Text me as soon as your plane lands. I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Mom." With that, I kissed her on the cheek, pulled my luggage out of the car, and walked towards the luggage check counter of the Phoenix airport.

Renee was sobbing, and I was jealous. She was sobbing because she felt emotional pain. Her body can translate that pain into sensations yet I cannot feel my own tears. I have CIPA, Congenital Insensivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. Basically, I feel no pain—which would be a dream to most people, but it's a nightmare for me. While other children learned not to touch a hot stove immediately, I have learned from the instruction of my doctors. In addition to feeling no pain, I also feel no taste, no change in heat, no sensations. I have to learn basic human survival skills like eating and peeing. I have a very small attention span, I cannot sweat, and I'm in constant danger of overheating. Like I said, it's a nightmare.

Six months ago, I was in the hospital for an infection of a cut on my foot that I hadn't noticed. That happens a lot—not noticing injuries, cuts, scrapes, or burns. And, as luck would have it, I am ridiculously uncoordinated, and constantly putting myself in dangerous situations. It was in the ER waiting room that she met Phil, her new husband. While I was receiving stitches in the bottom of my foot—not feeling anything but slight pressure—my mother was hitting it off with the minor league baseball player that broke his arm on a mechanical bull. And while I was forced to wear three layers of socks, so as not to rupture the stitches, Renee and Phil were falling in love. My foot healed and I've frequented the hospital many times for various reasons in the past few months, and over the course of that time period, Renee and Phil became engaged, and then married.

I'm usually pretty good about using the bathroom every two hours, feeding every four, and checking my body every morning for bruises and cuts—I've had to be, as my mother still believes that she is twenty-one, and can barely take care of herself. Still, I would not be alive without my mother keeping me out of the sun.

I love the Arizona sun. Although I cannot feel the heat on my skin, I love the colors it creates when it sets and rises.

Unfortunately, I am extremely susceptible to overheating, and cannot go outside very often. I was probably the palest person in Phoenix. Although I am homeschooled to prevent sun exposure, my mother constantly has to assist me in regulating my body temperature, and with Phil, she doesn't have as much time to devote to me. Thus, I volunteered to go live with my dad, Charlie, in the small town of Forks, Washington with nearly constant coverage of clouds. I'll still have to regulate my body temperature, but it should be easier without having to worry about the sun.

I really hate Forks. I would say that it's hell, but from what I can tell, it's cold. There is no sun to create the beautiful pinks and oranges of Phoenix sunsets, and everything seems so dreary. I used to live in the goddamn town, up until Renee left Charlie and took me with her.

Before my diagnosis, I had tons of bruises and scars that appeared from nowhere while Renee was at work. She blamed Charlie, and called him abusive. I'm not sure if she actually believed that Charlie was hurting me, or if she just needed an excuse to get out of Forks. Whether she did or not, CPS believed her story, and Charlie lost custody. When I was six years old and diagnosed with CIPA, Charlie's name was cleared, but Charlie and Renee had been divorced for two years, and she had no intention of going back to Forks. I grew to hate it as she did, and I've only seen my father for one week each summer for the past nine years, in which he stays in a hotel in Phoenix and tries to avoid my mom, except when receiving instructions on how to deal with my disease. I haven't been back to Forks since Renee and I left.

I only checked one bag that contained all of the clothes that I owned that were suitable for the cold, rainy Forks weather. Because I lived in the land of eternal sun, and I overheat so easily, I had very few winter clothes, all of which fit in one suitcase. After receiving my boarding pass, I glanced at my watch. _12:30 p.m.—bathroom time._ As I hurried to the bathroom, I felt ashamed of my condition. Being unable to feel any pain or sensations means that I don't feel the "tingle" that alerts a normal person to use the bathroom, so I have a schedule. Let's just say that I lasted a week in kindergarten, and then Renee pulled me out because of my embarrassment. Over the years, I've developed my schedule, but other roadblocks have kept me out of Phoenix public schools: the sun exposure at recess, getting too excited by other children, the low nutritional value of cafeteria food, my introverted personality. Needless to say, I've been homeschooled ever since.

Finished brooding in my helplessness, I quickly checked my temperature to make sure it was under 100 degrees Fahrenheit, checked my arms, legs, and face for any unseemly cuts, and headed toward my flight. It was two bathroom breaks and a vitamin-rich meal from Phoenix to Seattle, where Charlie would pick me up for the equally long drive to Forks. That drive would be awkward—and believe me, I knew awkward.

Honestly, I was just glad that Charlie was taking this so well. I felt immensely grateful that Charlie still loved me enough to support me and my medical bills with his meager salary and let me and my freakishness take up a more-or-less permanent residence his home, even after I had seen him for only twelve weeks since I was two years old. Still, I was a little frustrated at his and Renee's insistence that I attend Forks High School.

"Bella, honey," I recalled my mother trying to calm me, "now that you're older and have virtually no slips, there are no psychological reasons why we should let you deny yourself a high school experience. And, it will be a lot harder for you to overheat in that god-awful weather." I hated that word, 'overheat'. It always made me feel like a malfunctioning computer.

"God-awful weather? Real encouraging, Mom. Besides, I technically don't even need to be in high school. I finished all of the required coursework and more. You do realize that I could enroll in college right now, right?"

"Babe, you're going to go to high school. No loophole on this one. We aren't forcing you to relive your kindergarten memories, just to form new ones." Love you too, Renee.

I shuddered at the memory of the conversation between Renee and me two weeks prior, and feared for the lack of conversation that was approaching me. It wasn't that I didn't like Charlie—I loved him, in fact—but we were both so alike, so introverted, so quiet. I wanted to prove to him that I was appreciative of his help during this difficult time, but trying to start an engaging conversation between Charlie and myself was like trying to light a wet match.

Speaking of a wet match, Washington was exactly as awful as my vague memories and my mother's stories. When I arrived in Seattle, it was raining, and everything was soggy. I said my farewells to the Sun in Phoenix, and had accepted that I wasn't going to like the weather. I sighed and quickly searched for Charlie's police car.

After loading my small suitcase into the back of the cruiser, Charlie gave me a brief side-hug, and leaned gently to take the giant umbrella from my fumbling hands. "How 'ya been, Bells?" He walked me to the right side of the police cruiser under the large, ominous umbrella and opened my door, allowing me to clumsily slide inside.

"I'm alright, Dad." I paused for a moment, and amended, "I've really missed you since last summer."

"Likewise. How's Renee doing?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying so hard at small talk.

"She's doing well. She's really happy. I'm happy for her."

"Well that's… that's great." There was silence for a minute or two, and he started again. "Hey, Bells, I found the perfect car for you. Chevy pick-up."

"Oh, Dad, you didn't have to… I mean, I can't accept that after… It's really alright."

"Now, now. I'll have none of that. It's perfectly alright for a father to buy his daughter an old car as a welcome-home present. Besides, it was practically free."

I considered this for a moment, and resolved not to reject the gift. Charlie meant well, and he hadn't spent enough time around me to know how much I hated extra attention, particularly in the form of gifts or assistance. "Thanks, Dad," I replied, trying to put as much gratitude as possible into my response. "So… where did you find this cheap Chevy pick-up?"

"A guy down at the Quileute reservation, Billy Black. You used to beat up his son when you were a kid. Anyway, he bought the truck in 1984, but it runs like a dream. Jacob, his boy, fixed it up and everything. I made sure they installed a nice air conditioner to prevent any… incidents." He shifted uncomfortably again, as if I were humiliated when my own father brought up my disease. "I really do think you'll like it, Bells." He paused again, this time for about five minutes. "Oh, before I forget, kiddo, I transferred your files to the local hospital, so they should know all about you if there's an emergency."

I let out a tiny laugh. "You say 'if', like it's a possibility. Let's just hope they finish reading the file before I check in to the ER, alright?" I began to fear that Charlie didn't know what he was getting himself into.

The remainder of the drive home was relatively uneventful. Charlie fiddled around for the oldies station whenever we lost radio reception. I worked crossword puzzles to pass the time. We stopped three times for gas and bathroom breaks. For the last hour or so, I forced myself to sleep. I woke from my light slumber to the sound of gravel. Charlie noticed I had awoken, and said, "I was just about to wake you up, Bells. We're home."

"Alright, great," I said as the cruiser rolled to a stop.

Charlie left his headlights on to illuminate my new pick-up while he got my luggage out of the trunk, and I glanced at the old vehicle in awe. He could not have found a more perfect car. I had my qualms about the age of the truck—I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to myself—but all fears were forgotten when I caught a glimpse. I rushed out of the cruiser, stumbling slightly on the gravel. I ran my hands over the paint, noting every bruise that directly reflected my own. I loved its rarity, and felt like I wasn't alone as a misfit on this world. After another minute or so of me ogling at my new truck, I turned to Charlie, who was leaning against his cruiser, letting me have my moment. "Dad, you were right. This is perfect. Thank you so much!" I ran up to Charlie, and gave him a giant hug.

Charlie patted my back a couple times, as a signal to release and finally said, "Okay. Geez, that's a tight grip you've got there. You're going to have some serious bruises in the morning if you don't lighten up, kiddo." With that, I released my death grip, realizing my grip was outside of a normal person's pain threshold. "Come on, let's get you situated."

I followed my father into the two-bedroom house, haunted by the shrines of family pictures from fifteen years ago. When my father wasn't looking, I placed a couple pictures of him and my mother face down, then quickly caught up with him as he was heading upstairs. I wanted to think of this as a new chapter rather of life rather than a return to a horrible childhood. The house was completely alien to me, as I had very few memories of my life in Washington, and even less of the layout of the house. Charlie stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around to face me, shameful. "I'm sorry… I should have thought more into this… there's only one bathroom. But don't stress over it, I usually shower at the police station, anyway."

"Dad, it's alright. I'm not too into all that frou-frou beauty product junk anyway. It's cool." _I didn't really expect much, honestly_, I mentally amended.

Charlie nodded, and pointed too the right. "Alright, well… that's your room right there, kid. The bed should be fine for your restraints, but if there is a problem we can always take it back." He scratched the back of his head, "You like purple, right? The saleslady picked out the bedding and all. Your mother always did the decorating and stuff, so I'm not very good at that kind of thing. It's okay, right?"

"Dad. Chill out." I peeked into the bedroom and finished, "The room looks awesome, Dad, thank you."

He nodded awkwardly, and went back downstairs. I walked into my new, or rather, my old bedroom, and looked around at the furnishing. There was a bed with a headboard that I could easily fasten my restraints to in order to prevent myself from hurting myself in my sleep. In the corner, there was a rocking chair, where my mother sat during my infancy, agonizing over why I never wanted to nurse, never cried, and slept twenty hours a day. I saw the decrepit computer on the antique desk, turned it on, and listened to its slow drone and the high-pitched buzzing of the dial-up. "Oh, crap," I muttered to myself, realizing that I had forgotten to let Renee know that I had arrived. I quickly pulled out my cell phone and began to type a message to the best of my ability.

I set the cell-phone down by the still-loading computer and unp/acked my suitcase. I hung my few articles of clothing on hangers in the tiny closet, set my alarm clock, attached my restraints, and arranged my spread of vitamins and supplements. The task complete, I sulked over to the bathroom, resolving to make myself go to sleep early in preparation for the next day.

First and foremost, I checked my temperature. One-hundred and one degrees. I stepped into a cold shower to help regulate it… well, according to the thermometer, it was a cold shower. I wouldn't know—I can't differentiate the temperature. After reducing my risk of overheating, I washed my face, careful to remove the small traces of mascara so that I didn't feel the urge to pick at my eyes.

Clean and raw, I looked in the mirror. I hated how my hair looked when it was wet, and I gathered the brown mop into a messy bun atop my head. I leaned in and scrutinized my features. My bottom lip was significantly more full than the top, and was healing in the places that I had bit too hard—a nasty habit that I was trying desperately to break. There were small scrapes and fading bruises all over my pasty white skin, but they would be easily concealed to the public by foundation. I stepped back from the mirror, and cocked an eyebrow at my reflection, fearful of what the other students would think of how I looked.

In Phoenix, I had a few friends that I knew from the home-school circuit or the hospital, but no one especially close. I had never been to a sleepover, had a pillow fight, been in a romantic relationship, or kissed a boy. I never knew whether I should attribute my lack of a social life to my introverted attitude, my seclusion from traditional schooling, or restrictions from my disease. I wanted so badly to feel accepted, to be a part of a clique, to be a teenage stereotype. And yet, as I strapped my arms to my restraints that night, I resolved to not seek out social attention, out of fear of rejection.

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**My dearest reader-kittens,**

**I cannot stress how important it is that you review, regardless of how many chapters are in the story, the number of reviews, or the date the story began. I am an insecure, self-conscious person and need affection to feel complete. So review, criticize, if only of for the purpose of catering to my psychological issues.**

**And if you don't want to comment on the actual story, here's an idea: give me your best _Twilight_/vampire/mythological-being pickup line. Dazzle me. 'Kay, thanks.**

**Love and Helicopters,**

**Kat**


	2. No Experience

Tuesday, January 18

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer._

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That night, I didn't sleep well at all. Usually, I'm great at forcing myself to sleep—I have to be, as I don't have the natural inclination to sleep that a normal person has. That night, however, I couldn't bring myself to sleep until the wee hours of the morning. I think it was the rain. It might have been my nerves. Whatever the reason, all I could do was lay there with my hands tied to the headboard, listening to the drone of my cooling fan and the incessant rain, letting my thoughts wash over me.

When the alarm clock went off, I freed my hands and remained silent in my place for a few minutes, willing myself back to Arizona. Resolving that I was trapped in Forks, I pushed myself off of the bed and towards the window adjacent to the rocking chair. All I could see was the green of the trees and the mossy ground beneath, and the unsettling grey of the sky above. Despite my initial negative perception, Forks wasn't ugly… on the contrary, it was actually beautiful, in an eerie, ominous way. All the same, it made me feel claustrophobic; I felt like a prisoner. I constantly felt like a prisoner, chained to my disease and to my routine: why not extend that same feeling to every aspect of my life?

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, still in my sweats and my damp bed-head, Charlie mumbled a few words of luck and told me he was going to the station. I nodded and stumbled into the tiny kitchenette. I looked around—the décor emanated Renee and the early nineties. I rubbed my foot into the smooth white linoleum tiles, and ran my fingers over the aged yellow cabinets in an attempt to feel the chipping of the paint. Opening and closing all of the drawers, I noted that Charlie's silverware had been neglected in exchange for plastic, and dust had taken permanent residence there. I paused when I reached the small utensil drawer, in which I found eight eyedroppers, and supposed that they were the eyedroppers that Renee fed me with when I refused to drink her milk during infancy, the eyedroppers that were the subject of so many of her reminiscent stories. I slammed that drawer shut, determined to purge Charlie's kitchen when I got home after school. After leaning, ever so gently, against a cabinet to take in my surroundings, I turned toward the refrigerator to examine its contents.

A week prior, I had e-mailed Charlie a list of food that I needed, and I found every fruit, vegetable, legume, and whole grain that I had requested stocked in the kitchen. But apart from that, there was nothing else, except for cold pizza and Vienna sausages. I blindly reached for a banana and a slice of bread, checked that it was nutritionally balanced, and sat cross-legged on top of the small kitchen table. As long as it had adequate nutritional value, it didn't really matter what I ate—nothing had the potential to repulse me, as I had no sense of taste or smell. I've heard that some other CIPA patients can taste, but I never had that particular luxury. This additional handicap could easily result in overeating, or, more often in my case, under-eating. Like sleeping and peeing, I didn't feel any natural urge to eat, so I had to schedule it in, forcing myself to feed my body. I still tended to forget, though. Of all the things CIPA deprived me of, I wanted a sense of taste and smell more than anything else. Strangely, I loved to bake and cook—Renee called me the Beethoven of the kitchen. Sighing, I dropped my banana peel into the trashcan and assembled my structured lunch.

I glanced down at my watch. 6:30 a.m.—I had to leave for school in thirty minutes, forty five minutes before school technically started because I had to run by the nurse's office to drop off some doctor's notes and inform her of my condition. I also had to receive my schedule from the front office. I ran my fingers through my hair, frustrated. If I were in Phoenix at that moment, I would still be asleep, and I wouldn't have to wake up for a good two hours or so. I grunted and ran upstairs to get ready for my day.

I let out another grunt when I entered the bathroom for my morning regimen. Habitually, I downed Fish Oil, Vitamin D, Zinc, Calcium, as well as prescription medications, and a birth control pill to regulate my cycle. Looking up at the mirror, I noticed that I had a small gash above my right eyebrow, so I quickly washed my face to wipe away the small trace of blood. I let my thick, dark hair out of the makeshift bun and used my cheap ionic hair dryer to siphon the dampness away. I gathered the hair that was hanging around my face to the right side, and pinned it near my ear with two bobby pins. Blood had stopped running from the cut above my eyebrow, so I dabbed matte foundation over my scrapes and bruises and quickly swiped mascara over my top lashes. With one final look at the mirror, I mumbled to myself about my bad genes, and walked into my bedroom to throw on a lightweight grey sweater, dark wash jeans, and slip-on sneakers. I was half-way out the door when I realized that it was probably cold outside, so I dashed upstairs, and grabbed the coat that Renee had bought me as a going-away present. In Phoenix, I constantly worried about accidentally overheating; instead, I realized that in Forks I would have to worry about accidentally catching frostbite or hypothermia.

I stomped off towards my truck, trying not to slip on the wet gravel. After opening the door, I tossed my plain black backpack and grocery sack lunch in the truck, shoved my arms through the sleeves of my coat, and hopped into the driver's seat. As I turned the key, the engine rumbled to a start, and I took a moment to run my hands along the wizened leather of the steering wheel. The gas pedal would take some getting used to—it was much less responsive than Renee's car, but I preferred it that way. I turned the old stereo system on, and "Old-Time Rock and Roll" boomed from a Bob Seger cassette. I raised my eyebrows in surprise, yet decided to pull a Tom Cruise and sing at the top of my lungs as I cruised to Forks High School at 45 miles per hour.

-ooooooooooooo-

I arrived fairly early, and there weren't very many students, what with it being a Monday morning and all. Still, it wasn't difficult to follow the cars and locate the student parking lot. Parking where the visitor lot merged with the student lot, I shut off the radio, and took the key out of the ignition. Keys in hand, I leaned forward in the driver's seat so that my head rested on the steering wheel, and made a mental list of reasons why I shouldn't be nervous.

_One: It's just high school. It's not a life-or-death situation._

_Two: I'm really not that different from the other students, if you don't count the whole temperature-checking, sun-avoiding thing._

_Three: A social life with people who don't have medical degrees or aren't expected to die in the next five years would be a nice change._

_Four: It won't be all that difficult. I've learned the entire curriculum, anyway._

_Five: It's a lot safer than Phoenix._

As I entered the principal's office for the first time, I exhaled. It was tiny, and repulsive. The decorator felt the need to make a fake plant visible from all views of the room, and there were flyers about date rape or SATs in every empty space without a plant or carpeting. The receptionist, a red head with a mustard stain on her eggshell-colored sweater-vest seemed indisposed, so I sat down on a small chair near a fake fichus tree. The chair was probably a reject from the cafeteria, and when I shifted positions out of impatience, it rocked because one leg was shorter than the rest. Fighting the urge to rock left and right in the chair, I slumped and waited for the receptionist to look up.

After a couple of minutes of sheer boredom, the receptionist, who I gathered to be Mrs. Cope, asked me, "Can I help you with something, dear?"

I got up from my chair, and walked towards the desk. "Umm… yes. I'm Isabella Swan…"

"Oh, Chief Swan's daughter? The town's been quite atwitter about you, dearie."

Attention was the last thing I wanted. I didn't want to be interrogated on my private life, and I had no desire to be ogled like the freak of nature that I am. "Yeah… I just want to make sure I'm signed off on all of my paperwork."

Mrs. Cope flipped through a file, and responded, "You should be good to go, dear." She handed me a small packet of pastel-colored paper. "You'll find your schedule, a map of the school, and the code of conduct in there. But as the police chief's daughter, I'm sure you have a much stricter code of conduct at home." She laughed heartily at her joke, and I fidgeted, unsure how to react.

"Thanks. Can you direct me to the clinic?"

"Right that way, dear," she said as she pointed to the adjoining room. I nodded my thanks, and walked into the clinic, stopping briefly to pull out a folder filled with prescriptions and notes from my doctor in Phoenix.

As I approached the nurse, I handed her my folder, and began to introduce myself, "Hi, I'm Isabella…"

"Swan, yes. I've been warned about you. Good God, you're even prettier than they say."

I started to bite the inside of my lip, but I stopped myself. Nervously, I replied, "Umm… thanks." I rocked onto the balls of my feet and then back to my heels, then continued, "So…now you have my file. I'll probably see you soon." I paused, in case she wanted to say anything. "Well, that's about it. I'm just gonna go…"

Outside of the office, I pulled out my map of the school. I figured out from the schedule that I was heading to Building Three, but the map was impossible to decipher. After circling the school several times, and still having no luck in understanding the aerial view, I decided to wander until I found Building Three. I figured that I still had twenty minutes until the tardy bell, and I was bound to walk into the right class eventually. I roamed through the parking lot to reach the entrance where most of the kids were walking through, noting the decidedly average cars that my peers drove. There were a couple of exceptions, a silver Volvo to be precise, but for the most part I felt at ease in such ordinary surroundings.

When I finally located the building of my first class, my breathing quickened in nervous anticipation of a typically normal experience. I exhaled in an attempt to remain calm—despite the frigid weather, I was still susceptible to heat strokes, especially if I got too excited. I followed two girls into my English class, imitating them by removing my coat and hanging it on a coat-rack. As we simultaneously reached out for the coat rack, I compared the ghostly skin of my arm to that of a blonde, letting out an inaudible sigh of relief when I found that albeit clear of bruises, her ivory skin was paler than mine. Although I despised the gloomy atmosphere and the haunting memories of Forks, the feeling that I was perfectly normal in this place was oddly consoling.

After dawdling to the front of the class, I shook the greasy hand of the teacher, who introduced himself as Mr. Mason, him and I exchanged more meaningless formalities and, finally, he directed me towards a seat behind a scrawny boy with oily skin, whose eyes followed me a bit too closely for my comfort. Mr. Mason stayed crouched behind his dated Mac computer, and I supposed that it was unlikely that he would actually teach—an assumption that was verified by my fellow students, who pulled out playing cards, iPods, and cell phones.

Quickly seizing the opportunity, the kid in front of me turned around and said, "Hi, I'm Eric. You're the new girl, Isabella Swan. From Phoenix." He said that like it was a statement, rather than a question. He raised his eyebrows as his eyes scanned over my pale skin, making me feel even more uncomfortable

"I go by Bella, actually." I paused for a fraction of a second and added, "Wait, how do you know my name?"

"Everybody knows your name—you're the daughter of the Police Chief. People have been talking about your arrival for weeks now," he said as if the answer was obvious. I felt apprehensive that I was a topic of discussion, but at the same time relieved that people knew me as the daughter of a cop, rather than as a freak of nature. He noticed my hesitation to respond, and changed the subject. "So, where's your next class?"

I glanced down at my schedule and responded, "History, I guess. With Jefferson."

"That's in building six, right next to my next class. I'll walk you there."

I wanted to decline his offer, but I murmured a subdued, "Thanks."

We retrieved our coats in silence, but grew chatty as we walked together in the dripping rain. "It's a little different from Arizona, huh?"

"Oh my God, yes." I widened my eyes slightly in emphasis.

"So… why did you move?"

The question caused me to lose my footing—I somehow expected my peers to know about my disease. "Wait, you don't know?"

He shook his head from left to right and urged me to continue. I looked up at the grey sky, and shirked the question by replying, "Family problems. Same reason most people move, I guess." That response would come to bite me once people started finding out about my disease.

I was spared from further embarrassment when Eric abruptly stopped walking. He motioned towards a building that closely resembled building three, and said, "Well, that's building six. I'll see you later, okay?" I nodded my thanks and dashed into the building and out of the rain.

The rest of my classes lagged on in basically the same way—people wanting to talk to me and walk me to class. They always seemed to know me as Isabella Swan, so I never needed to introduce myself; I expected to be introduced and humiliated in front of the entire class, but that only happened in Spanish. I contemplated this to myself, and decided that my teachers had been informed of my disease, and didn't want to exploit it.

After two more remarkably non-instructive hours of awkward conversations with strangers who seemed to know everything about me, save my disease, it was time for lunch. As I followed a chatty brunette in my Trigonometry class to lunch, I struggled to remember her name. She didn't seem to mind that I was relatively quiet, and just continued to chatter on about some boy.

_Was it Jenna? Julie? _"…So that's why I think Mike and I would be so adorable together. I think I'm going to ask him to The Sadie Hawkins dance in a couple weeks. Are you dating anyone from your old school?"

I absent-mindedly replied that I wasn't, and fumbled with the cafeteria door.

"Oh, you have to pull that door, not push it." The flow of her words briefly stopped as we walked through the door, and she continued. "It's probably for the better that you aren't dating anyone. I've heard that long-distance relationships are tough. My friend Christina once dated this guy that…" As I sat down across from her at a round lunch table, I unintentionally tuned her out.

I pulled my sandwich out of my grocery sack and nibbled on the crust, pondering the concept of taste. It seemed so strange to me that everybody else in the world, save a handful of people, had this whole other sense. On several occasions, I had asked Renee what it was like to taste and smell. She could never put it into clear words, but she always claimed I was fortunate because I wouldn't have to worry about eating fatty foods.

I vaguely felt intermittent pressure on my right arm, and I looked up to find that the chatty girl was poking at me.

"Bella? Are you in there?" She snapped her fingers in front of my face a couple of times. As she brought her arm down, she knocked over something, which I vaguely recognized as the caramel she was using to dip her apple slices in.

I realized that she was trying to get my attention, and hastened to respond. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just—"

"Edward _Cullen_ is looking at you," she interrupted, as if it were an urgent matter, and not petty boy drama.

"Excuse me?"

"Edward. Freaking. Cullen. Is looking at you. Turn around, but make it subtle." Her voice seemed to rise in volume and pitch with every word.

"Jess," the girl who was sitting next to her countered as she tried to wipe up the caramel that Jessica spilled from the table. _Ah yes - Jessica was her name._ She continued in a hushed tone, "Give her some space. She's new here."

"Really, I don't mind," I replied. Jess was easy enough to deal with. To appease her, I turned around, and immediately let my emotions flood over me.

Five people sat around the table Jess was pointing at, all of them good looking abnormally good looking, and further conspicuous due to their alarming paleness. I recognized the two girls as the ones I followed into my first class, but I didn't recognize any of the three boys. I assumed the one with messy auburn hair to be Edward, considering the other two weren't facing me. I had trouble determining the expression on his face, but his eyes were piercing like vicious daggers. Wanting to examine him further, but realizing that I was staring, I disguised my twisted position into a stretch and turned back to face Jess.

"I'm sorry, who are they?" They were all oddly similar in appearance, sharing the same skin tone and eye-color. Each one of them was strikingly beautiful. It would be an understatement to say that my curiosity was piqued.

Jess leaned in, all too eager to share her juicy gossip. "They're the Cullens. They moved here from Alaska last year. They're really weird, and when I say 'weird', I mean _really_ weird. They're all adopted, and they're all _together_. Well, all of them except for Edward."

I chewed on a carrot, unsure on how to respond. Fortunately, Jess decided that the conversation wasn't over. "They all live together, with Dr. and Mrs. Cullen. Rosalie, the blonde, is with Emmett, the big one." She motioned towards her left, and continued. "And Alice, the little one with the short hair, is with Jasper, the one who looks like he's in pain. And the one in the middle, that's Edward. He's the only one who isn't _with_ someone… that we know of. But don't bother with him—at this point, we've pretty much determined that he's not into girls at all."

The tall girl next to Jess shrugged and took a sip of her water bottle. "Maybe he's into cougars or something…"

As Jess and her friend speculated about the Cullens' strange behavior, I suddenly found myself reflecting on my past love life, or lack thereof. In Phoenix, I had a couple 'flings', if one could call them that. The guys whom I was used to were far too different from the ones here, as they were typically boys who I met either at the hospital, the library, or a museum. Thus, they paled in comparison to most of the guys in Forks, even without counting any of the Cullens. Let's just say that nothing grew past the stage of awkward nonchalant banter. No matter how much I wanted the physical part of a relationship, I came to the realization that I probably wouldn't feel any enjoyment from sexual contact. Thus, I never really let myself pursue romance, because I didn't expect any guy to be content of a merely emotional connection. Sighing, I turned around toward the Cullen table, and found that Edward was still staring at me, his dark gaze making me feel vulnerable.

The bell rang for lunch to end, and I walked to Biology with the girl who sat next to Jess, whose name was revealed to be Angela. I liked Angela—she was courteous enough to give me space, and I didn't feel as much inclination to hide everything about myself from her. Still, she didn't inquire about my personal life, and I didn't share any details; instead, we timidly discussed movies and Austen novels. Talking to Angela was exactly what I wanted a friendship to be like.

We walked into Biology, and while Angela sat down at a laboratory table with another student, I approached the teacher to introduce myself and to receive my seating assignment. After Mr. Banner and I shook hand, he leaned towards me, and whispered, "I know it's probably a very personal subject for you, but I would be honored to learn more about your disease."

I replied quietly, "I wouldn't mind answering any questions. You're actually the first of my teachers to actually bring it up at all."

He scratched at his receding hairline and replied, "Yeah… the nurse told us not to, but I'm bursting with curiosity." I smiled courteously, and Mr. Banner continued, "Alright, well, you can have a seat by Mr. Cullen, and we'll begin class shortly." I nodded my thanks, and turned to sit down.

After lunch, I began to think that my day was taking a turn for the better. As could be expected of a person with my luck, those brief minutes of happiness faded away once I saw the glare. In the cafeteria I was unsure of whether Edward was staring directly at me, but when I was within ten feet away from him, I found myself overwhelmed by the anger that seemed to exude from his eyes. With my eyes on the floor, I sat down at the stool next to Edward Cullen with a severely heightened self-consciousness.

Occasionally, I would check to see if he was still staring, and every time I turned my head to the left, I found that he was, not even bothering to look away in case of being caught. After five minutes of restless checking, I decided to ignore him, and divided my attention between Mr. Banner's lecture and my hands instead. As I turned my left arm over, I noticed that I must have accidentally gotten a small amount of caramel on my arm when Jess knocked over the contents of her lunch. I licked my thumb, and rubbed it off.

His eyes pressed deeper into my conscience. I rubbed harder at my arm.

Mr. Banner interrupted the tension by asking Edward a question about the layers of the skin. He mumbled some emotionally drained response. I began to pick and scratch in effort to get the stickiness off.

Minutes passed, and my mind was partially absorbed in the lesson about hair follicles and the skin. The remainder of my mind was perusing the room for potential escape routes. I was contemplating jumping out of the window when I heard a low mumble. "You broke the skin."

"Oh?" I replied, not having registered the comment yet. I looked down at my left forearm, and gasped, "Oh. Oh my God." I asked Mr. Banner to be excused, and ran off to the bathroom.

Trying to calm my breathing, I further analyzed the condition of my arm. I had rubbed the skin raw where Jess's caramel had spilled; I rolled my eyes, relieved that I had gone this far without any substantial injury. I reached into my slouchy bag, in which the nurse permitted me to carry a variety of first aid items, and pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. As I dabbed the saturated cotton ball onto my wound, I heard a faint knocking on the door.

"Bella? How are you doing?" I recognized the voice as Angela's, and felt thankful for her politeness.

"Angela, it's a public bathroom. Come in if you like." I tried to make my voice sound as sincere as possible.

I hurriedly covered the exposed endodermis of my left forearm with a large band-aid, and sank down against the wall where Angela was sitting.

"Bella, I know we've only known each other for about an hour or so, but if you need anything, anything at all, you can tell me."

"Thanks, Angela. I really appreciate it. For right now, however, I'd prefer to keep quiet and minimize attention on myself."

She nodded in understanding, and we remained seated by the mirrors in silence for the remainder of the period until the bell rang, signaling the end of school.

"Alright, well, I have to go to gym." She let out a small groan and added politely, "Where are you headed?"

"I have an off-period, to catch up on correspondence work. Not all my credits transferred." Lying to someone as kind-natured as Angela made me feel guilty—I actually had an off-period because the nurse excused me from physical activity. I just didn't feel like I was on enough safe ground, where I could openly admit my disease to my peers without feeling some form of shame.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bella," she called out as I dashed toward the parking lot, ending my first day of school.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have a fantastic idea-you should review this chapter.**


	3. No Blood, No Foul

Wednesday, January 19

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer._

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I glanced up at the clock, and sighed. I flipped the page of the tabloid that I was absent-mindedly reading and flicked the top left corner of the magazine repeatedly, wishing for time to go faster. I figured that the excessively long wait in the waiting room of the Forks General Hospital and Clinic was attributed to the shortage of competent doctors in the Podunk town. For a moment, I considered intentionally injuring myself, as I knew that my disease would give me priority in the ER. Reasoning that if the hospital was this busy, I probably wouldn't be helping with my attempt to cheat the system, I slumped further into my chair.

I had thought that Tuesday went badly. For some reason, Wednesday was worse. After my first day, I was concerned about drawing attention to myself, and nearly had an anxiety attack during lunch. I heard snickering when I gave the wrong answer in trigonometry because I punched in an inverse sine function instead of a sine function, which only increased my paranoia. But those things were trivial—Edward's glares were etched into my mind, and that was my primary concern.

After Columbine, many of the parents of the children that died in the incident were at a loss as to who to blame—the people that were responsible had killed themselves, and couldn't be tried and punished by the law. And so, the parents of the killers, Marilyn Manson, and gun salesmen became scapegoats for an act that they had little to no involvement in. I suppose it's sacrilegious to compare a psychopath that murdered thirteen innocent people to a person that merely stared at me in Biology class and most likely never contemplated innocent slaughter, but the point is that I was harboring hatred, and I didn't know whose fault it was. Edward wasn't there to hate.

"Miss Swan, Dr. Cullen will see you now."

Upon hearing his name, I froze. I figured that in the small town, strange connections were bound to occur, but I didn't expect that I would be doomed to spend countless hours with someone so close to the one person at Forks High School who decided to hate my guts without actually having a conversation with me. It was only the day before that Dr. Cullen's son sent death stares in my direction. That day, Jess had informed me that she overheard him trying to switch out of our biology class, and I couldn't help but blame myself for his wanting to leave the class in the middle of the second semester. As I followed the nurse into the small exam room, I contemplated whether or not to bring Edward up to Dr. Cullen: I figured that it would be strange to mention Edward's abnormal behavior, but courteous to ask why he hadn't been at school.

I was used to waiting after the nurse left the room, as was customary with most clinics. This clinic was different. As the nurse sauntered out of the room, Dr. Cullen came in. His pace was simultaneously urgent and graceful, and his golden eyes appeared to quiver with anxiety, though his gentle smile made him seem perfectly well composed.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swan," Dr. Cullen said after he typed a few notes into his laptop.

"Afternoon," I said as I scrutinized the doctor's features. Although he had the same pale skin as all five of his 'children', it was obvious that he didn't father any of them—he was clearly too young, and his golden hair and facial features were so blatantly different than any of them. But it was his eyes that confirmed Jess's explanation that he had adopted the five kids. It seemed impossible to me that someone with Dr. Cullen's warm, honey eyes could have spawned anyone with dark knives for eyes.

It was then that I realized Dr. Cullen was trying to get my attention.

"Bella? Bella?" He snapped his fingers within inches of my face, causing me to break my glazed expression.

Slightly puzzled as to how he knew to call me Bella instead of Isabella, I replied, "I'm sorry, what?"

He smiled gently. "I was just explaining that I want to do a brief check-up, and then discuss some precautions that you'll have to take here that you may not have had to in Arizona. Basically, I just want to get on the same page. I'll fill Dr. Gerandy in on my notes as soon as she arrives."

"Sounds good."

I vaguely felt the blood pressure monitor tighten on my arm. "I realize that all the records of your blood-work are on file, but I would love to have a sample in the lab. Would you mind if I took a sample?"

"No, not at all."

"I appreciate it." He drew a needle out of a drawer in the examination table and continued speaking, "So, how are you liking Forks?"

_Thanks for asking, but I absolutely hate it. It's morose, gloomy, and your son's glares yesterday made me feel like the Elephant Man or a Siamese twin. _"It's… different." Dr. Cullen was kind and gentle, and I felt ashamed for associating the him with negativity that I felt for Edward.

He smiled knowingly, and I shifted position uncomfortably in response. "Try not to move too much, Bella. We wouldn't want to rupture a vein."

"Right. Sorry." I looked down at my arm, and became light-headed at the sight of my blood gushing from my arm into the vial. Most people found it incredibly ironic that I could bleed within an inch of my life and not feel a thing, yet passed out at the thought of blood. Avoiding the view of my arm, I took a shallow breath and glanced up at Dr. Cullen, trying to make conversation."Is Edward alright? He wasn't at school today." Trying to be sincere about the boy that hated me was difficult.

Dr. Cullen's features momentarily shifted from a calm assurance to apprehension. "Edward is visiting family in Alaska. He's considering graduating early and moving there to enroll in college this fall."

I nodded and decided not to push the subject. At the sight of the pain on Dr. Cullen's face, I felt foolish for even considering that Edward's behavior had anything to do with me. I figured that I had imagined the staring; he was probably fixated on his move to Alaska or something.

Dr. Cullen pulled the needle out of my arm and sat down on his stool. "Well, Bella, I don't think we need to make significant changes from your normal habits. We_ do_ need to be concerned about hypothermia, but you needn't worry yourself so much about the heat. If you have any questions, I'm usually here, and if not, Dr. Gerandy will be." He gently smiled, an action I quickly accepted as his trademark. "My daughter, Alice, tells me that there will be a blood typing lab coming up in advanced biology. We don't want any accidents, and already know everything there is to know about your blood, so I find that unnecessary. You can receive a note excusing you and schedule another appointment at the receptionist's desk." With that, he hurried out of the room, the flustered expression returning to his face.

Alone in the exam room, I murmured a faint "good-bye" to the open door, and hopped off the exam table to gather my bag and textbooks.

When I left the clinic and entered the parking lot, I noticed a clean Mercedes. I instantly inferred that it belonged to Dr. Cullen—it outshone all of the other vehicles, and as a physician he probably made four to five times the average annual income of Forks citizens. The vehicle had the same clean, shining quality as a Jeep and BMW that I had seen in the high school parking lot earlier that day. They—the Cullens and their vehicles—had a quality that I couldn't pinpoint; they had a certain "shine" to them.

I turned my glance toward my own vehicle and climbed into the truck. I noticed a few paper scraps from the school day on the dashboard: a phone number to a waxing salon that Jess had scrawled on a napkin (I had shaved my legs once before, and it had ended badly) and a piece of notebook paper on which Angela and I passed notes that documented both a conversation about Greek mythology and my confession that I suffered from CIPA. I had resolved that Angela was a person that I could trust not to exploit my disease, and I wanted to be honest with her.

I put the key in the ignition, switched off the cabin lights, and drove off toward the house I was beginning to accept as my own.

-ooooooooooooo-

"Hey, Dad," I uttered as I entered the living room. Charlie had company.

"Evening, kiddo," he mumbled. Realizing that he hadn't introduced the two people on the sofa, he continued, "Oh, sorry. This is Billy Black, and his son, Jake. I bought the truck off them, remember?

"How's that old thing holdin' up?" a boy with long, raven hair, whom I assumed to be Jake, asked.

"Oh, it's alright. I think you guys left a cassette in there," I replied.

"I think Jake may have been asking how the Chief here is holdin' up, not that dingy truck," a graying, wheel-chaired version of Jake added as Charlie gave him a light shove. "But you can keep the cassette—Jake has enough for his own good, anyway."

"Do ya' like it? The cassette, I mean." Jake's tenor voice was purely all-American, and his appearance was classically Native American.

"Uh, yeah, Bob Seger. He's great," I added, unsure of what I could further say about "Old Time Rock and Roll".

"Hey, Bells, I don't mean to interrupt, but would you mind carrying your conversation to the porch? The Mariners are playing."

"Sure thing, Chief Swan," Jake responded before I had a chance to vocalize my own opinion.

Despite my concerns about my Trigonometry homework, I followed the gawky boy outside. He momentarily stumbled over the doorway, and I cautiously stepped over to avoid the same mistake. Jake sat on the top step of our small porch, and I sat to his right.

"This is weird for me," I said as I sat down. "I'm used to being the one who trips and stumbles."

Jake chuckled, rested his forearms on his legs, and turned to face me. "Yeah, I just get nervous when I'm around pretty girls."

I laughed apprehensively, trying to flush that idea from my mind. "So, how old are you anyway?"

"Fifteen. But age is just a number, right?"

"Sure, kid." I was perfectly aware of what he was getting at, and the idea of having a relationship seemed unnatural to me. "Why haven't I seen you around at school?"

"I go to school on the rez. Keepin' the culture alive, you know?"

"That's too bad. It would be nice to have more people like you at school." On the porch, Jake seemed real and honest—he wasn't looking for social gain, or some new thing to satiate his curiosity. And when I sat by Jake, I didn't get the impression that he was throwing daggers of hate at me.

"Why? What are the people there like?"

I stretched out my legs, and focused on a blister on my foot. "I mean, they're alright. Just like any other high school in America. There are a lot of superficial people, but there are also some that are truly sincere. It's just… I've been so fixated on this one…" I trailed off, and turned to face Jake. "You don't want to listen to this, do you?"

There was silence for a moment, as both of us looked out at the trees and darkness.

And then, the gawky fifteen year old turned to me, and said something that really stuck in my mind. "You know what I think? I think you seriously underestimate people. Most of us are more than the image we present to the world, Bella Swan." He took in a deep breath, and scratched his scalp. "To answer your question, yes, I _would_ like to listen to this."

"Wow, Jake, that was deep." And he was right. I realized I had been privately judging everyone around me in the same pattern that I feared for myself. Jake, Jess, Charlie, Edward—I had an image for each one, all lacking depth, and none of them had more than one side.

_Jake._ I had met him before, but had very few memories of him at all. When I first saw him that night, I saw a scrawny, naïve thing with little psychological development outside of what was expected for a fifteen-year-old. But he revealed himself to be more than a Mike Newton or a stereotype—he was wise, and considerate.

_Jess_. Every thought I had of her these last two days was about her shallow perception. I didn't really harbor any negativity towards her, but I only saw her for her gossip and hair.

_Charlie. _Like the town I was now living in, I had this preconceived fear that stemmed from my mother's stories. That morning, he defended the Cullens as a contribution to Forks in spite of the negative thoughts of the community. Charlie was more than the turtle of a man that Renee had described to me, and Forks was more than the hell I had imagined it to be.

_Edward_. Edward, Edward, Edward. I was so confused about my feelings on the subject. I was positive that I was somehow responsible for his behavior and subsequent absence. I wanted to hate him so badly, to loathe him, and to draw all over his face with a sharpie. And for what? Because he looked at me weirdly? For Christ's sake, I nearly equated him with a mass murderer. When Dr. Cullen revealed that he was planning on moving anyway, I felt worse. I had flattered myself by thinking that I was responsible for something that every ounce of common sense said wasn't my fault. Still, when I thought of Edward, I thought of hate and blackness. Like every other person that I had conceived as flat, surely Edward was multi-faceted._  
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I judged even myself—all I saw was sickliness and isolation, but I now realized that I could be more. I realized that I could form bonds with people, and see them for more than my first impression.

Fidgeting with a ponytail holder on my wrist, I told Jacob Black all about my disease and my Edward-related fears. The day before, I wanted silence. On the porch, I was relieved to talk.

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**Dearest Reader,**

**I apologize for the brevity, and the cliche feeling... but I do hope you can over look that and enjoy my story. Special thanks to reviewers: I love the uplifting comments you leave, but don't be afraid to criticize-I can take it! I have a little "sneak peek" of Ch. 4...**

"My personal definition? Where do I begin?" I scrunched the hair near my scalp in my right hand. "It's supposed to mean that I don't feel any pain—apparently, I'm fearless. But for me, it means having to schedule and plan everything in my life because my body can't tell me what it needs-bathroom breaks, food, and sleep. It means I don't taste or smell, so I don't get to enjoy foods or candles. It means that I miss out on average human experiences like feeling an electric shock, or learning not to touch a hot stove. It means that I have to carry a thermometer with me at all times, so that I don't risk heat stroke because I lack the ability to sweat. It means that I can't enjoy the sunlight, and have to go about my activities at night or in a colder environment. It means I have to shackle my arms at night so that I don't accidentally hurt myself. It means that broken bones are ten times worse because I don't notice them, and go on with my life until someone else does. It means public humiliation when someone points out that I'm crying or severely bleeding. It means practically _living _in a hospital for my entire childhood. And worst… worst of all, it means I don't _feel, _and all the infinite handicaps I'm doomed to live with as a result."

**iPods and MacBooks, **

**Kat**

**P.S. Review my story, kiddo!  
**


	4. No Hard Feelings

Monday, January 24

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer_

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I began to get used to the silence. Expected it, and sometimes I enjoyed it. Charlie was rarely home, and when he was, he rarely talked. So I cooked, and cleaned, and did homework in virtual silence—it was simultaneously peaceful and unsettling. At night, the rain fell lightly, as if to try going unnoticed, so sleep was peaceful, so that my dreams were a giant void of comfort. Biology was the quietest—not physically, as there were murmurs and conversations between students, but there was an almost spiritual aura about it. The students seemed to fade into background noise, and I sat alone in the emptiness. In those moments, the eerie silence was _completely _unsettling.

Don't get me wrong, I never thought I was "alone in the world", or turned into a reclusive hermit—life moved on, and the quiet was transient. I had Jess, and Mike, and Angela, and Jake (when the Mariners were playing), and Charlie. They were certainly supportive and very friendly, and I often forgot about the silence moments when I was around them… but nothing could drown out the bleakness of biology.

On Monday, it was snowing. Between classes, snowballs were flying and students were giddy and I was jealous. It was undoubtedly pretty, but it didn't seem real. When I tried to touch it, I felt nothing. _They_ could feel. _They_ had fun. I settled for watching the white powder fly and living vicariously as Jess and I walked to the cafeteria, praying to God that I wouldn't slip and fall.

"Okay, Bella. On a scale of one to ten, how attractive is James Dean?" Jess and I had been rating miscellaneous celebrities all through Spanish class and on the way to the cafeteria. It was certainly entertaining, and I enjoyed the release the game provided. For a moment, I felt like a teenage girl.

"He's like an eight… but a high eight."

"Bella Swan, your standards are way too high! James Dean is a total ten! I mean, he may be an eight if you compare him to the Cullens or something… but they don't count." She let out a girlish laugh, and maneuvered through cafeteria chairs.

As I began to sit down in my chair, I stole a glance at the table in the corner.

Five. There were five people at the table. I counted again. Five. I immediately felt self-conscious.

Jess nudged me, and I broke my mindless gaze. "Bella, don't stare! Did you hear me?

"Umm… no, what did you say?" There were five. And the fifth was looking in my direction. I couldn't tell if he was merely looking, or if he was _glaring_.

Lauren snorted, and Angela gave her a pointed gaze. "I was just asking you to rank John F. Kennedy, but like, not on the same scale as movie stars." Jess giggled and added, "I mean, you'd have to judge him on a different scale… JFK doesn't hold a candle to _James Dean_."

Five.

"Jess, that's disgusting. He was like… forty when he was president," Lauren shot back at her.

Amidst their heated argument, Angela put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright, Bella? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm just a little dizzy."

"Are you sure? You should try eating something."

Five.

"I'm alright, Anj. I don't really feel like eating right now." My nutritionally balanced lunch was sitting right in front of me, but I suddenly didn't want it. I felt self-conscious, and I wanted an escape. I considered going outside, but the snow prevented me from staying out too long. If I went to the restroom, it would just be a repeat of when I ran to the bathroom during my first day of biology, and I didn't want people thinking I was habitually dramatic.

I leaned in towards Angela, and whispered, "It's just that I get really self-conscious when the Cullens stare. They probably know about my…" I hesitated, afraid to mention my disease aloud. With a deep breath, I continued in a hushed voice. "They probably know about my _you-know-what_. Dr. Cullen is my doctor and he probably told them. Are they… is Edward looking at me?" Coherent sentences were not my strong point.

Not bothering to look towards the table in question, Angela held my lightly trembling hand between her own. "Bella, listen. You are beautiful and unique and independent and wonderful. You do not need to be worrying about whether or not someone is _looking_ at you. What you have to go through is incomprehensible and strange to most people, but it's a part of you, and you shouldn't be so ashamed."

Angela baffled me. Most people weren't habitually mean, but she was the only person that I could think of who was habitually _nice._ I wished I could get to know Angela more, and that our conversations would be less focused on me.

I felt a nudge—Angela was directing my attention toward the bickering girls across the table. Lauren and Jessica were debating John Travolta now. I listened to the trivial conversation, grateful for the release.

Mike Newton trailing alongside, I walked into biology, eyes fixated on my own seat and the microscope in front of it. I avoided glancing at _his_ seat in the vain hope that his imminent stares would have less effect.

"See ya later, Bells," Mike said as he took his seat in the back of the class.

I sat at my stool, and picked at a fingernail. Metal scraped on nearby tile, and I vaguely recognized the sound as _him_, sitting at the seat next to mind. I should have pretended to be asleep.

"Hello, Bella." I looked up in shock. This voice was clear and smooth, and lacked the panic and hatred that characterized _his_ voice on that first day. And he knew to call me Bella.

I think I forgot how to respond.

"My name is Edward Cullen."

"I know." I panicked. That sounded creepy and stupid. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. That came out wrong. It's just… you're _Edward Cullen_."

"Yes, and you're _Bella Swan_," he said with a laugh. This new Edward laughed with a gentle, mature quality that was similar to that of his father. And his eyes—they were bright and golden, exactly like Dr. Cullen's

Mr. Banner coughed as if to get the attention of the class. "Mr. Cullen, Miss Swan. We're ready to begin if you are."

I looked down at the lab summary, embarrassed. Cell division—I had done similar exercises countless times. Because I had to complete the majority of my schooling in a hospital, my knowledge was heavily biology-concentrated.

"Would you like to start?" This voice was so soothing. It was difficult to imagine that the same person who was so kind and light and golden was capable of the dark glares of the week prior.

I caught myself gazing at his topaz eyes as I replied absent-mindedly, "Umm, yeah. Sure."

I drew the microscope to my eye for a moment and muttered, "Prophase." I began to replace the slide, but was stopped by Edward's voice.

"Would you mind if I checked?" It was like bells.

"Be my guest," I said, trying to maintain confidence and composure. Simultaneously, we reached to adjust the slide, but Edward withdrew his own hand hurriedly at the touch and flinched.

I wrinkled my brow and asked, "Why did you just jump like that? I don't bite."

He pulled the microscope towards himself and murmured something about static electricity, then glanced at the eyepiece. "Prophase."

Because of my disease, I had never felt a static shock before. Like every other sensation, I longed to feel it. It was all so abstract and foreign, and I wanted to be a part of it. I caught myself reaching towards the boy, craving to see his reaction to the touch, and wanting to feel the texture of his arm. Instead, I settled for running my thumb back and forth on the lab table.

"Anaphase."

"May I?"

I pulled my face towards the microscope, and caught Edward's reflection in the mirror beneath the slide. His amber eyes seemed to tremble. Looking back at the slide, I confirmed Edward's analysis. "Anaphase." I held out my hand. "Slide Three?" As I felt the slide drop into my hand, I wished Edward would have touched it.

The rest of the lab carried out in a similar fashion—we said little to each other, apart from what was necessary for the lab. And in the brief time that Edward examined a new slide, I gazed at his hair and his skin and his arms. In less than one hour, I had become the exact type of girl that I once would have judged for excessive romanticism.

Finished with the lab, I looked at Edward, who met my gaze. His eyes seemed… almost scrutinizing, but not in a condescending manner. Curious. They seemed curious. They also seemed unnatural—I was positive that one one week prior, his eyes had been dark, with an equally intimidating appearance. But there, in biology class, he looked golden—bronze hair, golden eyes, flawless skin.

Before I could catch myself, I blurted out, "Did you get contacts?"

He wrinkled his brow, as if confused by the simple question and replied, "No… why?"

I broke the gaze and looked at my thumbs. "I could have sworn they were darker," I mumbled, embarrassed. I had probably imagined the glares on the first day out of nervousness and anxiety.

"Ahhh, Mr. Cullen," Mr. Banner said when he reached our table. "I see we didn't let Miss Swan partake in the lab."

"On the contrary," Edward said haughtily toward the teacher. "Bella identified three of the five."

I raised my eyes to Mr. Banner and shrugged my shoulders. "Spending an unhealthy amount of time in a hospital has its benefits, I guess."

Edward snickered. I forgot that I hadn't told him about my condition—he probably knew anyway, what with his father being my doctor.

"Well, then. I think you'll find that you and Mr. Cullen are aptly suited for each other," Mr. Banner said with a smirk as he proceeded to the next table.

Edward was glaring at the dry-erase board. "So… I guess you know. About my condition." I fidgeted with the ponytail holder on my wrist.

He breathed in, his face briefly contorting into an expression of pain, and nodded. He ran his fingers through his bronze hair and shook his head in apparent exasperation. "There are no secrets in my family." A loose hair of mine lay on the table, and Edward twirled it between his fingers. "I hope you don't mind me asking… but what's your story?"

I didn't mind. I found myself _wanting_ to tell him all about my past, but I wanted to know his as well. I breathed in. "I don't have a problem telling you about myself. I just don't want to be gawked at like a freak of nature."

Edward snickered and I squinted my eyes at him. "I'm sorry," he said politely. "I wasn't laughing at you, I promise."

I twisted my foot around the leg of the stool and began. "I was actually born here. I lived the first two years of my life in the same house I'm living in now. But as I aged, people began to discover an increasing amount of bruises on my body." I closed my eyes for a moment and reopened them to look at Edward's hands and the hair he absent-mindedly fidgeted with. "My mom accused Charlie of child abuse, and whisked me away to California. After four years of scars, bruises, broken bones, and minor heat stokes, some doctors in Phoenix diagnosed me with CIPA, and so Renee and I moved to Arizona for the health facilities."

"So, why did you move back?"

"I'm just so in love with this little slice of _heaven_," I said sarcastically, batting my eyes for dramatic effect. "And after Charlie's name was cleared with my diagnosis, I just couldn't _wait_ to come back."

Edward chuckled. "I presume you aren't the biggest fan of Forks."

I rolled my eyes to illustrate my opinion on the subject. "That, my friend, would be the understatement of the year." I hesitated, and laughed. "Actually, it would be more of a litotes."

Edward smiled boyishly for a moment, but a calm maturity instantly returned to his face. "Why the negative perception? The weather?"

I shrugged. "I could care less about the weather. Other than its appearance, I can't tell a difference. I suppose I've been brainwashed a little. I mean, I've spent my entire life listening to my mother's stories about how she felt trapped, and about the cold, and the negativity Renee associates with the northwest. But in all honesty, it's gloomy and dark. I miss how Phoenix was open and beautiful."

"And you moved for health purposes?"

"More or less. My mom got remarried."

Edward cocked an eyebrow, as if he expected me to elaborate further on the subject.

With a sigh, I asked, "Are you that masochistic that you actually _want_ to hear about my personal issues?"

He smiled impishly. "There's no debating that you're interesting, Bella Swan." He motioned with his hand for me to continue, and I ran my fingers through my hair.

"Renee got remarried to this guy, Phil. He plays baseball for a living—strictly minor league, though. He moves around a lot. My lifestyle and medical requirements keep me from moving too frequently… and as people age, they recover less quickly from heat strokes, which occur frequently and fatally in people with this condition."

"So… your mother made you move back?"

I squinted, taking offense at his question. "No. She did not _make_ me move—Renee would never do that. I just… I realized that I was becoming too much of a burden. Renee has another person to love and take care of, and I didn't want to get in the way. Besides, in this place where the sun never shines, I can live some semblance of a normal lifestyle."

"You put up a nice front, kid," Edward said as he raised his eyebrows. "But I think you're in a lot more pain than you show."

I shrugged and absentmindedly picked off a small scab from a mosquito bite. The thought occurred to me that in assessing my psyche, Edward may be analyzing from experience rather than knowledge. "Fine—maybe I _do_ put up a front. But I don't think I'm the only one," I said pointedly.

Edward's right hand was in a fist. He persisted with his inquiries, ignoring my accusation. "So, what exactly does your condition constitute?"

"Your father didn't fill you in?" If he knew that I had CIPA, surely he knew what it was.

He tensed. "I know the medical definition—the inability to feel pain due to a faulty connection between neurons and pain sensors." He looked me straight in the eye, and added, "But I want to know your personal definition."

"My personal definition? Where do I begin?" I scrunched the hair near my scalp with my right hand. "It's supposed to mean that I don't feel any pain—apparently I'm fearless. But for me, it means having to schedule and plan everything in my life because my body can't tell me what it needs-bathroom breaks, food, and sleep. It means I don't taste or smell, so I don't get to enjoy foods or perfumes. It means that I miss out on average human experiences like feeling an electric shock, or learning not to touch a hot stove. It means that I have to carry a thermometer with me at all times, so that I don't risk heat stroke because I lack the ability to sweat. It means that I can't enjoy the sunlight, and have to go about my activities at night or in a colder environment. It means I have to shackle my arms at night so that I don't accidentally hurt myself. It means that broken bones are ten times worse because I don't notice them, and go on with my life until someone else does. It means public humiliation when someone points out that I'm crying or bleeding severely. It means practically _living _in a hospital for my entire childhood." I looked at Edward's tensing eyes and closed my own. "Worst of all, it means I don't _feel_."

I took short, broken breaths and feel and wipe away any potential tears. Edward was extremely rigid, facing the front wall. I felt the inclination to comfort _him_ and reach for his hand, but instead, I reached for a paper towel at the lab station, and wadded it in my own.

I wasn't sure what to say. Edward remained motionless.

"Look, I'm sorry. I hardly know you. I shouldn't have been so emotional." Once again, the guilt washed over me. I wanted to tell him _everything_, and this time, and not just because I wanted it out of my system. I wanted _Edward_ to know about my life, without pretexts. For a short moment, it seemed like Edward did genuinely want to talk about me, but he suddenly reverted back to the person that I met on my first day at the school. I looked over at Edward, who remained fixated on the front of the classroom—his eyes seemed less golden—more of a dark amber. The silence returned.

The bell chimed, signifying the end of class. Edward bolted. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel—relieved that the tension was gone or angry at Edward's abrupt relapse into silent hatred. Honestly, I felt guilty and stupid for putting myself in an emotionally vulnerable position, and for becoming briefly infatuated with a person that clearly did not reciprocate my emotions.

I scrutinized my aged mosquito bite, and lightly pressed a finger on a small drop of blood that marked where the scab had been.

-ooooooooooooo-

I sat in my truck, looking out at the parking lot. Technically, I had an off-period, but I just wanted to sit and dwell in my empty feelings. I rifled through the cassettes in the glove compartment, and selected Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. I smiled as I opened the case and pushed it into the dated stereo—I had mentioned to Charlie that I only had one cassette for the sound system, and he kindly retrieved a large cardboard box full of cassettes and records. My weekend was filled with hours of digging through Charlie's treasure chest of music, ultimately selecting six cassettes to live permanently in my glove compartment.

I thought back to my early childhood, when Renee had given me a walkman to play Chopin, Wagner, Debussy, and Beethoven while I lay on the hospital bed, and I quickly grew to favor the music of the romantic era. She intended the gift to be "intellectually stimulating" and "educational", but I got so much more out of listening to piano and string concertos than I did from mundane repetition of multiplication tables. Beethoven was always my favorite—the darkness and depression of his later works captivated me, and I was always entranced.

I was in a completely different environment: no sun, no homeschooling, no semblance of my childhood. In convincing Renee to let me move to Forks, I told her I would like it more and that I would have a chance at a normal lifestyle. But in the comfort of my own truck, all I wanted was to go back to the time of hospital beds and my walkman.

The classic drama of Beethoven filling the truck, I lay across the front bench seat, trying desperately to reproduce my memories. I tried to close my eyes and let go, but I couldn't. My eyes flitted to the mirror protruding from the right side of the truck.

I sighed in exasperation as I watched Edward Cullen, of all people, storm towards a silver Volvo that sat in the row behind mine. He stopped for a split second, and proceeded to get in the car.

At first, he rubbed his temples with his thumbs. And then he punched the headrest next to his, causing it to knock clean off. For a really nice car, it had some crappy headrests. For a while—maybe thirty minutes or so, he sat with his head on the wheel. I wanted so badly to know what he was doing: praying, sleeping, or just sitting. As one side of the cassette came to a close, I figured that it would be in my best interest not to get too involved in Edward Cullen's life, no matter how strange his behavior.

And so, I drove off, questioning my decision to do so. As I pulled out of the parking spot, and Edward left my vision, I caught one last glance of him looking towards my truck—but in wonder, not contempt.

* * *

**My darling readers,**

**Once again, I have published a chapter without running it by my betas-but have no fear, it will be fully edited and proofread sometime within the next week. I was a little concerned that this chapter is a little _too_ much like Stephenie Meyer's version, but I hope you find it distinct and intriguing (in a different kind of way that you would find _Twilight_ intriguing). **

**So, I thought I would give you some insight into my writing process: It's largely based on the online document of _Midnight Sun_, as I wanted my Edward to function in an extremely similar manner to SM's Edward (although, sometimes the "original" annoys me, so you'll find that I edit him to my taste), as a way of pointing out that it is not an entirely different story, just the same story in a different situation. I also have a copy of _Crepusculo_, the Spanish translation, and I read it for inspiration in determining Bella's actions, as reading it in a different language presents essentially the same scenario, but with more potential for individual interpretation.**

**Dictionaries and Thesauruses (Thesauri?),**

**Kat**


	5. No Accident

Tuesday, January 25

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer_

_

* * *

__Shit_.

I had been cautious—no, I had been more than cautious while driving to school on the icy road. Since I arrived in Forks, I meticulously prepared everything, every detail. My fears of hospitalization had placed me into my own isolation, and I was fine with that.

But then, I saw the van swerving towards me. I realized that every precautionary measure I had built up became futile in that instant. I didn't know what to do in a situation of this magnitude. I didn't know where to run or how to flinch. My thoughts were a blur of curiosity, confusion, and expletives.

Paralyzed by my thoughts and braced for impact, I wondered what it would feel like. How much pressure would I feel? Would I be able to breathe? Would I be able to feel pain? How quickly would I recover? How would Renee and Charlie respond?

The van approaching rapidly, I shut my eyes.

-ooooooooooooooooo-

The pressure came from everywhere. My body struggled and flailed against it, with no avail. I was frustrated—I couldn't tell what position I was in or where I was, but I heard the screams of my peers and the crash of the metal. I needed to escape.

I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was blood-stained gravel. There was an inch opening between my right arm and my body that allowed me to look in between the vehicles at the ground. As I glanced around using my peripheral vision, I realized the location of my body parts. My left hand was gripping the ledge of the truck bed, and my right, which held tightly to the side mirror of my truck, was crushed. My body was sandwiched in between the two vehicles, but I realized I could move my legs from the knees down.

I relinquished my left hand's hold on the truck, and used it to punch in one of the windows of the van, and remove the rest of the glass from the window. I kicked my legs until they were free enough to bend my knees upward, and wormed my body upward until my feet were inside the open window. Placing my boots on the edge of the window, I used my legs to push as hard as possible, until I was able to free myself completely and sling my body into the bed of my truck.

I took a moment to breathe. There were more screams, now mixed with whispers and gasps. I assumed a crowd had gathered. I didn't want that. I didn't want to draw any more attention drawn to myself.

I sat up in the bed of my truck, and realized that I now directly faced Edward's silver Volvo. Alice Cullen sat in the driver's seat, talking on her cell phone and staring off into nowhere particular. In the passenger seat, Edward sat, his head resting on the dashboard, and his whole body shaking. He looked up, and relief washed over his face for a brief instant, only to be replaced by fear.

I looked around. Most of the student body was crowded around the accident scene. I wondered why Alice and Edward sat in the Volvo—I wondered if it had anything to do with me. It probably didn't. God, I needed to stop making everything about myself.

As I crawled out of the truck bed, I searched for an EMT. I had walked on broken feet for weeks before noticing, and I knew that if something was wrong, I wouldn't be able to tell. The ambulance hadn't arrived yet, so I assumed that only a couple minutes had passed since the crash.

I took a few steps back, and surveyed the scene. I saw my body imprinted into the metal of the van, and how my truck received little damage beyond chipping of the paint.

My vision began to warp and contort, and everything turned grey. I stepped blindly toward my truck, and sat down, leaning my head against the rear with my eyes closed.

-oooooooooooooooooo-

Someone was shaking me. Vigorously. I opened my eyes, but the grey images continued to swirl and warp.

"Bella, come on." The soprano voice was slightly muffled, yet simultaneously clear and songlike. The grip on my shoulders tightened, and the shaking persisted. "Bella, you have to stay awake."

The color returned, and I looked toward the direction of the familiar voice. Edward and Alice knelt across from me, both in surgical masks. I blinked twice to make sure I wasn't imagining things.

Alice continued, "My name is Alice. I'm Edward's sister." She nodded to Edward, who rifled through a large first aid kit. "I want you to maintain eye contact with me. There's a large chance that you have a concussion, so you will _not_ for any reason go to sleep, do you understand?"

I nodded to show that I did.

"Good. The ambulance should be here in about twenty minutes or so—there was another accident this morning on a bridge, and they can't move as quickly due to the ice. In the mean time, you need to try to remain as still as possible so that the severity of the injuries doesn't increase. Edward's going to try to patch you up so you don't lose any more blood, and our father will be on speaker if we encounter any issues. Do you have any questions?"

I had tons of questions, but I wasn't exactly sure if I was able to respond.

I heard a rip, and looked down at my legs, where Edward was tearing the fabric of my jeans, and meticulously plucking pieces of glass from my legs. I hardly recognized my legs—they were a mess of blood, exposed muscle, and skin. I suddenly felt nauseous.

"Bella, you need to look at my eyes, and nowhere else," Alice said as she noticed me gawking at my shredded legs.

Alice's eyes were a dark gold, much like Edward's at the end of class the previous day. I tried to figure out her expression, but the surgical mask prevented me from deciphering any emotion other than what her eyes provided.

"Hey, Alice?" I managed to muster out words to my own shock.

"Hmmm?"

"Why are you wearing surgical masks?" I was immediately afraid that my question was stupid, obvious, or invasive.

The corners of her eyes lifted, which I assumed was indicative of a smile. "Dramatic effect, dahhh-ling," she said as she batted her eyelashes. "We get a lot of freebies from our father, what with him being a doctor and all. Do you like?"

I smiled. "It's kinda creepy, actually. But you pull it off."

Edward snorted, and Alice swatted at him.

The whispers of the crowd grew louder, but I was afraid to break Alice's gaze to see how many people had gathered.

"I'm really surprised that so few people are crowding the accident scene. I mean, I prefer it this way, but I'm surprised. I was afraid I would be suffocated by people," I told Alice as she wiped my face with a cotton ball that was drenched in benzyl peroxide.

"Bella, as long as we're around, don't anticipate anyone approaching you. We tend to scare people." Alice dropped a scarlet cotton ball into a plastic baggie and grabbed a towel, which she placed on the right side of my forehead. "I need you to hold this towel in place and apply slight pressure."

Edward lifted one of my legs to wrap it in gauze. I tried to get a glimpse of him through my peripheral vision, but it was difficult. I wanted so badly to look into his eyes and run my fingers through his bronze hair and feel the texture of his skin.

In hindsight, I felt angry at myself for thinking about such trivial things in such a serious situation, but I continued to dwell on Edward and his reaction to the incident. I wondered why he was so quiet—it seemed that Alice was doing the talking. I assumed that I had done something wrong during biology that made him not want to talk to me. But it made no sense for him to help me if he didn't like me—maybe Dr. Cullen instructed them to offer assistance to me. Even so, I didn't think my disease made me any more important than anyone else. Wasn't anyone else involved in the accident? Was someone helping them? The attention began to make me feel nervous, so I gripped the towel that I held to my forehead more tightly.

"So, Dr. Cullen told me that Edward is considering graduating early and going to the University of Alaska," I said, instantly regretting bringing up the subject. It felt strange talking about Edward as if he wasn't right in front of me, quickly removing random objects from my limbs, cleaning my wounds, and wrapping them in gauze. But it became apparent that he didn't intend to speak, and I didn't intend to encourage him to do anything he didn't want to.

Alice looked deeply into my eyes. "You'll find that my brother can be very indecisive at times." Her eyes met Edward's, and then flickered back to my own. "Then again, he's often very adamant in his decisions."

Her response was vague and I wanted Alice to elaborate, but oddly, I felt like I wasn't the intended audience.

"So I take it you don't approve of his choices."

Alice shrugged. "Unfortunately, my opinions don't matter. Edward needs to carve his own path." She sighed and continued, "But he knows that it's futile to run away from change."

Her answers continued to be vague and peculiar. What did she mean by change? I knew it was selfish to think that I had a role in what could only be personal family matters. And yet, I felt inexplicable guilt—as if the tension was somehow my own fault.

Edward and Alice looked off toward the road, and Alice's gaze quickly reverted back to mine. "Alright, well, it looks like the ambulance is just about here. Edward and I are going to go talk to the EMTs as soon as a stretcher arrives." Edward stood up and walked toward the approaching ambulance, and Alice continued talking as she stood, "It was very nice meeting you, Bella—even under the circumstances."

A few seconds later, three EMTs came running with a stretcher. Alice and one of the EMTs exchanged some emotionless words about my injuries, and I was carried off into the ambulance.

-oooooooooooooo-

A leg, broken above the knee. Four dislocated fingers and a reattached pinky. Three broken ribs. Over one hundred stitches.

I hated the body that I was doomed to live in. Actually, I didn't hate my physical self as much as I hated that I couldn't comprehend exactly how breakable my body truly was. I wasn't allowed to move, because I couldn't feel the pain that would prevent me from ripping my stitches or re-breaking my bones. I was trapped in a useless casing and I felt like Frankenstein's monster.

Frustrated and bored, I glanced at the clock across from my hospital bed. It was 3:15 p.m. School ended at 3:00. I wondered how long I would be stuck in that room.

Dr. Cullen walked in, without a lab coat or a clipboard—he wasn't here for doctor business. He sat one of the visitor chairs next to the window of my room. I expected him to say something, but he didn't.

After he sat down, I turned my head to face the chairs. "Dr. Cullen?"

He raised his eyes slowly, and I saw exhaustion plastered across his features. "Yes, Bella?"

I wasn't sure if I wanted to answer. He looked so solemn. "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but why are you here?"

"I'm on my break," he replied, as if it answered my question.

"So you came to my hospital room?"

I saw gentility meld with the sadness on his features. "Forgive me if I'm intruding. I just wanted to pray for you. Would you mind?"

I wanted to point out how ominous it was that a well-qualified doctor wanted to pray for my well being, but it didn't seem like a time for humor, so I simply replied, "Sure. Go right ahead."

Dr. Cullen placed his forearms on his knees, and bent his torso until his head reached his hands. And then he stayed there, silent.

I wasn't entirely sure how to react or what to do. I didn't understand why Dr. Cullen felt the need to pray over me—the obvious answer would be my disease, but it didn't seem unmanageable, and my injuries would heal over time. He clearly had another motive.

Regardless of his purposes, it made me feel awkward. I wasn't entirely comfortable with the attention, and I didn't know if I should do anything in response. I've never been a very spiritual person, so I felt completely clueless.

After a period of time that seemed to extend forever, Dr. Cullen rose. As he walked toward the door, he paused and looked at me, then continued his path towards the door.

I still wasn't sure what to do, but I knew that I wanted answers. It may have been the drugs, but I was confused about everything Cullen-related: the treatment I received from Edward, the surgeon masks, the prayer. Their behavior seemed so guarded and nebulous.

"Dr. Cullen?" I asked as he placed his hand on the door handle.

"Yes, Bella?"

I wasn't exactly sure of what I wanted, but I blurted out, "I would like to speak with Edward."

Dr. Cullen surveyed me from my head to my feet and replied, "I'll let him know."

* * *

**My darling readers,**

**Thanks a million for the reviews-they me feel happy. Anyway, I thought I would address a couple things. Yes, I did diverge from the plot. I wanted Edward to stay in the car because I wanted to highlight on Bella's disease, and what it really means. I felt that it wouldn't make sense for Edward to be in Bella's company because he wasn't really involved in the incident, he would have immense difficulty being around her open wounds, and he's still in the "I need to run away before I kill somebody" phase. But I also wanted to emphasize that the Cullens are still very much involved in Bella's affairs on a personal level, hence Carlisle.**

**Candy and Soda,**

**Kat  
**


	6. No Reality

Wednesday, January 6

_DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer

* * *

_

"Hey there!"

"Hi, Mike," I said absentmindedly as he walked into my hospital room. Mike had visited me every day for over a month. At first, I was okay with it—I got lonely, and I liked having someone to talk to. But I was afraid I was leading him on, so I began dreading his daily visits. He set a stack of schoolwork that he had picked up for me on a little table beside the hospital bed, and sat by my feet. I sighed. This situation was starting to get uncomfortable. "So, what's the news?"

Mike shrugged. "I think Angela is finally going to ask Ben to the Sadie Hawkins dance. I told you about the dance, right?"

"Umm… I think so." Mike had told me about the dance. On numerous occasions.

"Jess asked me today, actually," Mike said apprehensively.

"What? Mike, that's fantastic! Go get 'em, tiger!" I exclaimed, emphasizing that I was happy for him in order to encourage him to move on.

"I haven't said yes yet." His face dropped, and he looked like a sad puppy.

I sighed. I did not want to deal with this. "Mike. You're an idiot. Jess is great—you guys would be perfect together."

"I was just wondering when you get released. Because I can always tell Jess "no" if you want to go together." He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and I leaned my head against the wall behind the hospital bed.

"Mike. Even if I do get released, do you honestly think I could dance? I'll have a cast on my leg for at least another month." I pause, exhaled, and continued, "I'm really sorry. Tell Jessica that you'll go with her. Please."

Mike became offended. "Oh, I get it, Bella. I thought we had something." He stood, and punched the wall. "You won't be seeing me around much more," he said in as angry of a tone he could manage.

I sighed as Diane, one of the nurses, walked in with a stack of pillows. She turned and watched Mike Newton storm down the hallway, then walked over to my hospital bed. "It's aboot time ya' let tha' one go," she said in a thick rural Canadian accent as she changed my pillows. "One can only handle so much of the Newtons, eh?"

I nodded in agreement, but felt guilty in my stomach.

"He'll get over it, hon. Besides, i' looks like ya' got another visitor," she said as she motioned toward the door.

I hadn't seen Edward in over a month. The day of the accident, I expected him to come by—he was probably the only person in the junior class that didn't. I thought he would want to check on me, to clear the air. And then I felt arrogant and self-absorbed for wishing he did. Without the help of Alice and him, I could have very well bled out, entered a coma, or suffered much further damage than I did. To expect more of either of them would be prideful.

However, I told Dr. Cullen from day one that I wanted to see Edward. He never came.

And now, over a month later, Edward Cullen was standing in the doorway, looking way to perfect for his own good in a black v-neck tee and dark jeans. Diane shuffled out and his presence became even greater. The pulse monitor sped up, and I instantly wished that my temperature and heart rate weren't being monitored so closely.

"May I come in?"

The beeps of the machine became uneven. I became uncomfortable. I tried to calm down my unsteady heart rate.

"So you've decided to talk to me," I shot at him, bitterly.

He flinched and took my accusation as an invitation to come in. "My father said you wanted to see me."

"I wanted to see you a _month_ ago, Edward. " He was looking directly at me, and the eye contact was making me uncomfortable, so I shut my eyes. I exhaled. "Why are you visiting now?"

"Why did you want me to come?" I heard a slight frustration in his voice

"I wanted the opportunity to say thank you and to ask you questions that, a month later, are irrelevant." I opened my eyes, and saw him reading my chart. "Edward. Why are you here?"

He looked up from my chart. "Bella, I've been deliberately avoiding you. But I promise that it's in your best interest that I continue to do so."

"My _interests_? Edward, you know practically nothing about my interests." I heard my voice rise in pitch and volume.

"Trust me, Bella. We should stay away from each other," Edward said with calm resignation.

"Fine, Edward. You know what? Just leave." I chunked a textbook at him, which he caught almost instinctively, so I started throwing anything that I could get my hands on. "Go ahead, LEAVE. Hell, why did you even bother trying to help me after the accident?"

He froze, and then closed the distance between the wall in the hospital bed. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Isabella Swan. I have many regrets about that accident. I regret that I didn't pull you out of the way of the van. I regret that I didn't get to you sooner, so you didn't have to wrench yourself out from between two vehicles. I will never regret trying to save your legs from amputation, or trying to prevent you from going into a coma. You are _ignorant_ for thinking that I do."

I kicked and scratched at him like a three-year-old with a temper tantrum. I flailed and screamed. I felt like someone else was screaming, someone else was fighting. Everything became a big blur of colors and sounds.

I heard frantic footsteps, and then someone pinned my arms down. I kicked even harder.

"Out. Now." I recognized the voice as Dr. Cullen's, but his harsh tone was entirely alien. "Edward. OUT."

And then, my body was submerged. This scenario was very familiar. Ice bath. I let out another scream.

"Bella—it's alright," Dr. Cullen was crouching by the tub and the kindness had returned to his voice. "It's alright, child. Nothing's wrong."

I felt like I belonged in an insane asylum.

"Diane, stay with her." Diane took a seat by the tub as Dr. Cullen walked out of the room.

"He didn't mean nothin' by it, hon," Diane said as she looked down at me. "Th' boy, I mean. He just wanted to fix things, is all."

I didn't respond. I wasn't sure if I knew how to form coherent responses anymore.

I heard Dr. Cullen's voice in the hallway, stern but gentle. "Let this be a lesson to all of you—do _not _upset a CIPA patient. The consequences are tremendous. She could have died of a heat stroke, or broken any number of bones. Cynthia, decrease her hormone levels."

Footsteps dissipated, and a young doctor I assumed was Cynthia came in and exchanged my IV bags.

"Hey now," Diane said as she turned my chin towards hers, "It isn't you that's dangerous. It's that goddamn disease. It's not your fault you're this way. Everyone knows tha' you're as gentle as a lamb, hon."

A low thud came from the wall, and Diane leaped in her seat.

"Well, what do you suppose tha' was?" Diane exclaimed as she walked to the door. She leaned her head into the hallway and looked around, then returned to her chair. "Sometimes, I swear tha' this hospital is haunted."

I looked away from Diane and focused on the canvas cloth that covered the tub, intended to keep me from escaping. I thought about what Diane said—and I knew that my condition is not my fault. But it was and is a part of me. I _am_ my disease, whether it's my fault or not.

-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

In my dreams, I typically thought about pain. I imagined what it felt like, but the only way I could grasp it was through images. Understanding the idea of pain was like trying to understand four dimensions when only three are visible.

I loathed my sleep, but I knew it was obligatory. Every night, I was bombarded by dark shapes and forms and sounds. I didn't know what they were supposed to be, but I always thought that pain would look like those images.

That night was different. It was tranquil, like I imagined sleep was supposed to be like. I was given another chance at the conversation Edward and I had earlier that day.

In my dreams, Edward Cullen was stood in the doorway in a white button-up and jeans. There was no beeping to give away my heart's fluttering.

"May I come in?"

He was perfect.

"I've been waiting so long for you to come," I said as I sat up, leaning onto my left arm with my legs curled beside me. "I've wanted to see you more than any other person."

He stepped into the room. It dawned on me that it wasn't a hospital room—it was completely empty, except for the two of us and the mat where I lay. "Every single day, I've wanted to visit you. But it was impossible."

"That doesn't matter. " He gazed at me inquisitively, and I continued, "It only matters that you're with me now."

I stood up and walked towards him. I felt relieved that I could walk—in reality, I couldn't.

"Bella, tell me why you wanted me to come," he breathed as my fingers latched around his neck

"To thank you for rescuing me after the crash," I whispered back at him. "And because I want you to kiss me."

He moved a few strands of hair from my face and tucked them behind my ear. "Soon. But not yet."

I made small circles on his collarbone with my thumbs, and he leaned his forehead down to touch mine. "Do you promise, Edward?" I asked. "Do you promise to kiss me someday?"

"I promise."

We stood for a minute, silent and in each other's presence, then he whipped his head around. "I have to go. I shouldn't be here," he whispered like he was sharing a secret.

"No!" I cried. My fingers tightened around his neck. "Don't leave! I'll be alone!"

My eyes flew open, and I actually was alone.

"I love you," I muttered to the darkness. And then I regretted it—I didn't love Edward. I loved the idea of Edward, the fantasy, the idealistic Edward. I didn't know anything about Edward in reality. He was a stranger.

I squinted to get a view of the red letters of the digital clock. 11:32 pm—still early. I wasn't sure what to do—I didn't want to be subjected to the gruesome images of my dreams.

I flipped a switch on the bed that turned the lights on, waited for my eyes to adjust, then reached for a novel from the small table beside my bed. I was shocked to discover that textbooks that I had previously thrown were all in a neat stack, and a single peony sat atop the pile. I picked it up, and held it in my good hand, rubbing a petal between two of my fingers.

And then I saw the note, attached to the flower.

_Bella-_

_I am endlessly sorry for the outcome of our meeting. It is in both of our best interests that I stay away until you are in a more stable condition, though I detest the idea of parting on such a horrid note. I am glad that you are healing, and I wish you well._

_Edward_

I probably stared at his brief letter for an hour. Maybe longer. I ripped the note from the stem, and stuffed it into a novel.

And then, I pulled myself up to the edge of the hospital bed, and stood on my right leg. I hobbled over to the nearest vase, and dumped a bouquet of flowers into the garbage, replacing it with the peony.

That was the first time I had stood since the accident.

* * *

**Hello, my pretties-**

**It still isn't complete, but it's in the editing process. Give me your opinions-was Dreamward too cheesy?**

**Milk and cookies,**

**Kat  
**


	7. No Common Ground

DISCLAIMER: All things Twilight are Stephenie Meyer's. Not mine.

* * *

"Good mornin', dear," Diane said as she walked into my hospital room, her hair newly died into an orange-yellow tint and her full figure bouncing.

"Hello, Diane," I replied. She pushed open the nylon window curtains, and although no light entered the room from the dark Washington forest, the room felt brighter. "You seem very sunny today."

"Oh, honey I am so happy! My husband took me on a date last night—he took me all the way to a nice li'l Italian restaurant in Port Angeles."

"That's sweet."

I wondered what my own idea of happiness was. I could care less about materials and tangible objects—I had danced with death on multiple occasions and knew that while life is precious, materials were frivolous and ultimately trivial. Things were not what I desired—at that moment, I wanted to feel: I wanted to be able to be emotionally free without having to be tied down, I wanted to blush, to feel static electricity, to feel ticklish, to feel sensational.

There was a familiar rap on the door frame, and Diane called out, "Come on in!" as she changed my IV bags. "Bella, I'm goin' to m' next patient," she said to me after she finished switching the bags.

Diane strolled out of the room at the same time as Charlie stepped in. He sauntered over to the hospital bed where he stood about two feet away. Charlie had been coming to see me every morning before work, and every evening after. Typically, our conversations were short and unsubstantial, but it was comforting to have him there nonetheless.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey there, kiddo."

"How was the game?"

Charlie looked out the window. "Mariners won. Billy Black says you'll look just like him when you get out, with both of you in wheelchairs. Jake's helping me put in a wheelchair ramp."

"Dad, you don't have to do that. I won't be in a wheelchair for that long."

He shrugged. "It's alright. Besides, Billy's around all the time anyway, and you and I both know how difficult it is getting that old fart in and out of the house."

"As long as it isn't just for me." I hated the idea of people changing their lives for my benefit—it made me feel like a burden.

Charlie looked at the flowers and balloons that decorated the area near the hospital bed. "Quite a collection you got here, Bells."

I immediately felt embarrassed. If it wasn't offensive and against the doctor's orders, all of the cards and balloons and flowers would be in the trash or nonexistent. Well, _most_ of it.

"Ha, yeah."

"Is that one new?" He motioned to Edward's flower.

"Umm, I guess." I hoped to God that he wouldn't question me about it any further.

"It suits you better than the other ones. Less gaudy."

I shifted my body weight, unsure of how to respond. "Thank you?"

Charlie cleared his throat, picking up on the awkward tension. He looked at his watch and then towards the door. "Well, I have to be at the station in ten. I'll stop by after work."

"Alright. Bye, Dad. Love you."

"Love you too, kid," he said as he patted my cast twice.

I sighed as he left the room, and reached for my trig textbook, my notebook, and a pencil. Tapping a mindless rhythm with my pencils, I tried to memorize the unit circle. But eventually, I just focused on the rhythm I was tapping, making it more complicated, and attempting to flip the pencil with my hands.

Tap-tap-tap-tick-a-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tick-a-tap.

I tried to toss the pencil into the air and catch it with the same hand, but predictably, I threw it off the bed.

I contemplated picking it up, but figured it was an omen to be productive.

"I'll get it," said a smooth baritone.

I jumped in my seat. "Jesus Christ! Edward, where did you come from?"

He leaned down to pick up the pencil, and placed the pencil on my textbook. "The hallway."

"Funny. But seriously, I didn't even realize you were in here."

Edward shrugged. "You seemed focused on becoming the next Ringo Starr."

He was such a small distance away—the only time he had been closer was yesterday, when I erupted at him. I traced the lines of his strong jaw with my eyes, and realized I was supposed to be angry at him. But I couldn't quite remember why. My eyes immediately shifted towards my lap.

"It's past 8:00," I said with as little emotion as possible. "School has already started."

"Indeed it has." He responded as if I were pointing out an obvious, but irrelevant fact. As if I just told him that it was raining outside or that the world was round.

I picked at my nonexistent fingernails. His presence made me increasingly more nervous every minute. "Does your father approve of your being here? You know how easily I can lose my temper."

"He is aware I'm here. He thinks I can handle myself."

"I don't think the issue is whether or not _you_ can handle yourself." Edward snorted at my response, and I wondered if he understood the magnitude of the situation. "Do you even remember what happened yesterday? I practically exploded."

"For that, Bella, I am sorry. You shouldn't have to go through what you have, and I certainly didn't help anything."

Why was I angry with him in the first place?

"It isn't your fault. It's who I am. You can't help it if I get emotional around you." Did I actually say that out loud?

"I can relate."

That certainly wasn't the response I expected, and it didn't make any sense to me. I didn't know which part Edward related to—the part about being doomed to live a diseased life, or the part about being emotional. Neither seemed likely. I squeezed the wool hospital blanket as a subtle way to manifest my feelings physically. For some reason unbeknownst to me, every one of my emotions had a physical response.

"Why did you come back, Edward? I thought you were staying away from me." I released the blanket and looked back at him so that he could see every ounce of anger that I was trying to muster up. "Do you _want_ a repeat of last night."

Edward flinched and said, "God, of course not!" He looked into my eyes and continued, "But I'm much more educated on your disease, and think I'm more qualified to handle your… episodes."

Episodes? He made me sound like a toddler. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had to be _more_ than educated to handle me and my disease. It takes years to learn all of my quirks and behavioral patterns. What did he even mean by "handle"? It wasn't like we were particularly chummy, and he certainly wasn't my nurse.

"And besides," he said as he looked down at the tile, "I don't think I _can_ stay away."

In that moment, the world stopped.

I opened my mouth to respond, but I couldn't—it was so intense. I was going to tell him how every single thing he said was cryptic and strange, but instead, I simply looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"Sorry," he breathed. "That was too heavy. I just… I just have something to ask of you."

_Edward Cullen_ sounded nervous. Could he even be nervous? I wasn't sure that it was even possible—he had always been cold and cocky before.

"According to your chart, you'll be released today. I was wondering if you wanted any help—you know, getting places?"

That was unexpected. "Wait… what?"

"Do you need help getting to school, running errands, getting home, et cetera?"

I played with the idea in my head. But then I realized that in every scenario, I imagined dream Edward, not real Edward.

There must be a catch. "Help from whom?"

"Myself, obviously."

"Why would you _want_ to cart me around everywhere? Are you masochistic?"

He smirked. This was obviously a joke. "It's the least I can do, especially after how I've treated you."

I had to force myself to remember that his personality changes in an instant—he could hate me one day, and be friendly the next. "Edward, I've decided that you either have multiple personality disorder or PMS. I thought you didn't want to be around me."

"I said it would be better if I wasn't around you, not that I didn't want to be."

"Well, that clears things up." I said sarcastically.

"As I said, Bella, I don't think I _can_ stay away from you."

The beating of the heart monitor became erratic. I wasn't sure if I wanted to run or get closer to him. I waited for the beat to steady. "Edward, I don't know what kind of twisted joke this is. I am in the hospital. I have a serious disease, and am somewhat insane because of it. I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't say things that you don't mean."

"Would you please let me drive you, Bella Swan?"

_Yes. I'll go anywhere with you._

He didn't know what he was getting into. Anything he says could be a catalyst for a reaction. I could hurt him, both physically and emotionally. "Edward, I'm not sure that's the best idea-."

"Let me drive you, Bella."

"Okay." I was a selfish bitch.

His mouth morphed into a huge grin, and he bounced on his toes, somehow finding joy in this catastrophe of a situation. "I should get to class."

He sped out the door, leaving his fingers indented on the door frame as he swung around the corner.

-00000000000000-

I made a mistake. I should never have told Edward that I would let him drive me. We didn't even know each other—I couldn't let someone I didn't know do me a favor that great, especially Edward. He didn't even know what reactions he stirred up within me. Did he even notice how the beating of my heart became erratic whenever he entered the room? Did he see how everything he said evoked emotion within me? Since I moved to Forks, Edward was the only person who made me burst with anger and subsequently burst with happiness—I was never casually indifferent to anything Edward did, like I was to others.

Edward and I, together, were volatile.

I cared for Edward. I didn't want to do anything to hurt that man, regardless of how misunderstood he was and how everything he said was extraordinarily vague. I knew I would hurt him, if I hadn't already. It's inevitable and in my nature—I hurt everyone who I care about, everyone who is close enough to my heart to stir up my emotions. They say one thing that makes me angry, and I'm kicking them will all the force I can within seconds. I've done it to my mom, and my doctors, and nurses. And it isn't the physical aspect that's the hardest for the people close to me to deal with—it's the emotional pain. When I get heated, I don't hold back. If people don't understand the kind of person I become when I'm angry, they feel emotionally hurt, which I'm told is a much greater pain than anything physical.

I would love to be with Edward in the small cabin of his car for several hours each week. Even though his presence made me angry and frustrated, it also made me nervous and happy, a rare emotion since I moved to Forks. But as much as I enjoyed the idea, I couldn't bring myself to deliberately hurt Edward, so I decided to rescind his offer. But I wasn't sure how I could possibly muster up the courage to tell him "no".

I sighed and pushed food around on the lunch tray that Diane brought in only moments before. Sometimes, I wished that I could live my life in a clean room where nothing could go wrong—I wouldn't have to worry about hurting myself or other people. I wouldn't have to monitor and schedule every single thing I did.

But that wouldn't be a life at all. Life is characterized by mistakes and struggles and issues and pain. I wanted to feel pain. So badly. I wanted to take risks, and feel the consequences. I wanted to feel, in general.

I wasn't sure which I wanted more: to live in an isolated, perfect environment, or to live on the edge and be able to _feel_. I stabbed a white plastic fork into a pile of mushy baked carrots.

My attention was diverted from the slightly grotesque hospital food by a knock on the door.

"Come in!" I shouted to my visitor. I hoped it was Dr. Cullen, with my father and my release papers.

"I'm trying not to frighten you this time." I jumped.

_Thanks for nothing._

"Do you ever go to school?" I said as I put my fork down and looked up at the glorious boy. I had to tell him. I couldn't let him drive me.

"School? What's that?" Edward said with a sheepish grin, sitting in the stool beside the hospital bed. "I have lunch right now. And afterwards, as you know, I have biology. We're doing blood typing today—which is a rather redundant lab for me, considering my father is a doctor. Besides, I decided as long as I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly."

_Thanks, Edward, for yet another cryptic response_.

"I don't really approve of your skipping, but thanks for visiting me. It means a lot, Edward." It did actually mean a lot to me. I had many visitors the first week, but eventually, my only visitors were Charlie, Angela, Mike, and my nurses. It blew my mind that _Edward Cullen_ ditched school to visit me. Things like that didn't happen to girls like me.

"Why are you here?"

"You ask me that question a lot," Edward chuckled. "Like I said, I don't think I can stay away. I'm giving up."

_Giving up what?_

"You really need to stop doing that, Edward."

Edward smirked, one side of his mouth slightly higher than the other. How had I not noticed that? "Doing what?"

_Being ridiculously good-looking and downright charming._ "Giving me all these vague answers. I don't understand them, and I don't know how you expect me to respond. It's extremely frustrating."

"That's exactly the issue. I always say too much around you."

"Jesus Christ, Edward! You're doing it again!" I slammed my fist down on the bed in frustration. "You know I don't understand."

He smiled with his perfect, lop-sided grin, and replied, "I'm doing something right, then."

I realized that if I let the longer I let this—this playful banter—go on, the harder it would be to cut the cord. I had to let Edward go soon. I started to arrange the vegetables on my tray into various shapes.

"Aren't you supposed to eat that?" Edward asked with a cocked eyebrow.

I shrugged. I needed to tell him. But I couldn't. So I just played with my lunch.

"Do you not like the food? I can have my father arrange for them to bring something different." His brow furrowed, and he appeared genuinely worried. Food was the least of my problems.

He seemed to think that he could fix anything with the snap of a finger. But life wasn't like that. I couldn't change my genetic makeup like Edward could change a lunch menu. I had to live with the life I had been dealt.

I sighed and looked at Edward. "The food is fine."

"Then why aren't you eating? Are you not hungry? You shouldn't skip meals." Did he not see that my not eating was only a physical manifestation of my struggle to tell him "no".

"It's really not a big deal, Edward."

"Your health is certainly a big deal, Bella."

_And so is yours. Which is why you can't be in my life._

"I can't taste. Or smell, for that matter. The food is fine. And even if it weren't, I wouldn't care." I inhaled and exhaled slowly. "It's just that… I can't ride with you, Edward. It's not a wise idea."

"I promise you, I'm well equipped to deal with any issues that could possibly—"

"Edward, your medical capability isn't the issue. I don't _want_ to ride with you, okay. I don't even know you, and I'm not sure that I want to get to know you. Sorry."

He stumbled backwards—he looked like he had been hit by a train. Regaining his composure, he replied, "Fine. Let me know if you change your mind."

He walked towards the door, and I felt an enormous pang of guilt. I was doing both of us a favor, I shouldn't have felt guilty.

He was almost to the door when I blurted, "Hey, Edward?" without thinking.

"What?" His tone was instantly coarse. I kept reminding myself that it was for the better if we had nothing to do with each other.

But the next sentence slipped out.

"Thanks for the flower."

He simply nodded and left the room.

At that point, I went numb. I curled up as close to the fetal position as possible without moving my leg too much. As guilty as I felt, I knew that in the end, my choice was for Edward's benefit.

-0000000000000-

"So, that about clears it up. You'll be free to go as soon as your father checks you out."

Dr. Cullen seemed to be glowing angelically, even in the flickering fluorescent lights. It wasn't fair.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Cullen," I sighed. "I can't to get out of here and have some semblance of freedom. No offense." In a hospital, I couldn't run away—I was confined to a bed, and couldn't escape the people, the prodding, or the isolation.

Dr. Cullen chuckled. "None taken, Bella." He inhaled and shifted his clipboard. "Edward told me he would be taking you home. Why the change in plans?"

I stiffened. Seriously, how was I supposed to answer that?

_Your son makes me so emotional that I turn into, quite literally, a psychotic bitch whenever he's around me. Oh, by the way, I think that I may be in love with him._

My eyes flitted towards the door in the expectation of Edward inconveniently popping in. "He's not spying, is he?"

I sounded like an idiot.

"No, Bella," Dr. Cullen said with his comforting smile. "He's not spying."

I knew that if I were in Edward's position—if I had been turned down because I was being protected, I wouldn't care. He had to believe that I said "no" out of hatred or anger or some negative emotion that I couldn't quite put a finger on.

I sickened myself.

Nevertheless, I wanted _somebody_ to know. I wanted the confirmation that I was morally justified.

"And you won't tell him?" In hindsight, Edward's father probably wasn't the best person to seek that confirmation from.

"I promise," Dr. Cullen pledged with his right hand in a Boy Scout three-finger salute, "that I will do everything in my power to make sure that Edward never finds out whatever you have to say."

Stupid coercing smiles and Boy Scout salutes.

"I hurt people, Dr. Cullen. Every time I become attached to anyone, I become liable to get emotional and lash out. I've broken arms and caused concussions. And hearts, I've broken those too. I've ripped people to shreds on both a psychological and physical level. Dr. Cullen, I can't just stand there and watch myself form a connection with a person who I know I'll end up hurting.

"When I was seven, my mother wouldn't let me stay up past nine o'clock to watch Cartoon Network, so I kicked her. She just disregarded my violence, turned off the television, and hid the remote. So I broke my own arm. On the way to the ER, she was crying. No, she was bawling. She asked God why he was punishing her, what she did to deserve "such a curse". That's what I am, Dr. Cullen. I'm a curse. For everyone around me.

"I don't want to hurt him, Dr. Cullen. I… I can't do it."

Dr. Cullen sat down on the stool by the bed and squeezed my shoulder. It was an endearing gesture, but I'm sure it would be comforting for people that could feel it.

"I can't tell you if you're making the right decision—that's for you to determine. However, I can tell you that you will hurt people. But everyone hurts people, Bella. It comes with making choices, not with having a condition. Relationships are nothing but a series of joy and pain shared with another individual, and if someone can't take the pain along with the joy, then they don't deserve to partake in that relationship."

Just as I was beginning to admire Dr. Cullen for his psychological expertise, he leaned his head against the wall, and laughed. I wasn't sure if I should have felt insulted. He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. "You know, Miss Swan, you and Edward have more in common than you know."

_Umm… thank you? _

Dr. Cullen put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up as Charlie came into the room.

"Oh, hey, Doc," Charlie said in his gruff tone. "Ready to go home, kiddo?"

I smiled up at my father as I swung my legs around and Dr. Cullen helped me get situated in my wheelchair. "Of course—I have to make sure you still know what actual food is."

Charlie pushed me out of the hospital, the ends of his mustache curving upward into a smile.


End file.
